The Golden Boy
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Sylvanas's forces had been routed, and Lordaeron had been reclaimed by the Alliance. Now, among other concerns, was the question of who would now sit in the nation's throne.


**The Golden Boy**

Just standing in the throne room of Lordaeron's capital gave Anduin chills.

Much had transpired here thirteen years ago. It was here where the prophet Medivh had first appeared before King Terenas, warning him of the looming threat of the Burning Legion. It was here, months after that event, that Arthas Menethil had killed his own father, plunging a sword through Terenas's heart. And it was here, scant days ago, that Anduin Wrynn, son of Varian, had led his fellows into this place, deposing Sylvanas Windrunner; the Banshee Queen, and Warchief of the Horde. Deposed, rather than captured or killed, and even "deposed" was arguably too generous, Anduin reflected. Lordaeron belonged to the Alliance. Teldrassil had fallen to the Horde. Sylvanas still ruled her faction, and her words hung over his mind as surely as shadow hung over his room.

"You've won nothing," she had whispered.

He'd won a ruined city and spent thousands of lives in taking it. Tens of thousands would die before this was all over. In that sense, Sylvanas was correct. So while he wondered what future historians would make of this moment, of when he'd cornered the Banshee Queen, he knew that it would never make the same impact of the deeds of the men who had come before him. Terenas Menethil II would go down in history as patron of the first Alliance. Arthas Menethil, whatever his deeds in service to his country prior to his fall, would go down in history as a betrayer, usurper, and mass murderer. How he, Anduin Wrynn, bearing the names of Lothar and Varian, would go down in history was something he couldn't answer, but he suspected that history would be more favourable to him if he'd managed to end this war here and now.

"For what it's worth, I know what troubles you."

Anduin, despite his wish for solitude, smiled. "Do you now?"

"You look at the throne and wonder who will sit on it."

He turned round to see the visitor. "Actually, that hadn't entered my mind."

"Then may I suggest it enter it quickly."

Anduin remained silent. Genn Greymane's suggestions were usually welcome. The exceptions were when he tried to press the issue of the line of succession, and Anduin's lack of an heir (such conversations usually touching on Tess Greymane in the process). Other exceptions included this.

"My king? Are you well?"

Anduin snorted and turned round to face the throne. "We're at war with the Horde. Teldrassil has burnt to the ground, and the architect of its slaughter has evaded our grasp. No, Lord Greymane, I am not _well_."

Greymane walked over. He was easily a head taller than Varian in his worgen form. Yet behind his fangs, behind his fur, Anduin could still see his eyes. Human eyes. Or at the least, eyes belonging to one who was a thinking, sapient, erudite being, and not a ravening beast. And in those eyes, Anduin could see his concern.

"You wish to say something," Anduin said. "Speak."

Greymane said nothing.

"Your king commands it, regardless of how uncomfortable it may be."

Greymane nodded. "Very well. What I wish to speak of…" He trailed off, nodding towards the stone chair five feet away from both of them. "Is who ends up sitting in that chair."

Despite himself, Anduin smiled. "You set your sights most high Lord Greymane. I'm impressed."

Greymane let out a snort through his overgrown nostrils. "I speak not of myself Anduin. I have no claim to the throne. None currently living do."

"Calia," Anduin said.

"What?"

"Calia," Anduin repeated. "Calia Menethil."

"As I said, no-one _living_ has a claim."

Despite his earlier words, the former king of Gilneas walked over and sat in the throne. It hadn't been designed to accommodate one of Greymane's physique, and the result was less a regal pose, and more like a wolfskin pelt that had come to life, draped over its sides and slouched against its back.

"It's a nice fit," Greymane said.

"As someone who has the benefit of standing five feet away, I disagree," Anduin said. "But no matter. Calia Menethil has the claim. Semantics about her state of being do nothing to change that."

Greymane let out a growl.

"What?" Anduin snapped.

"Has it occurred to you that Calia's state of being has everything to do with her not being fit?" Greymane asked.

"I don't follow."

"Undead," Greymane said. "Yes, not Forsaken, yes, imbued with the Light, but yes, undead."

"Among the Alliance are blue space goats, purple elves, bamboo-eating bears, and overgrown mutts. Does our level of tolerance extend far enough to them, but not others who simply don't draw air?"

"To us?" Greymane said. "No, Young Wolf. Even I, in an ideal world, would be happy to see Terenas's daughter upon this chair."

"Then why not-"

"But ask the average citizen about tolerance, and you'll find them far less enlightened," Greymane said. "Ask the average citizen of Lordaeron who fled south due to the Scourge how they'd feel about answering to an undead girl, and you might be surprised about the results." He snorted. "Or not. When I say you, I mean only, well, you."

Anduin scowled. He began to pace round the room, his left hand grasping Shalamayne's hilt, his right curled into a fist. "I can't believe that," he said. "I won't."

"As king, you have many rights. The right to change reality is not one of them."

"Reality only as you claim it."

"Reality as I know it." Anduin opened his mouth, but Greymane kept talking. "Yes, I am no paragon. Yes, I have put Gilneas before the Alliance many times. But when it comes to matters of succession, I will still claim to be the wiser man." He gestured to the throne. "Do you know why Terenas Menethil is so revered?"

"Because…he founded the Alliance?" Anduin wasn't sure what else the answer could be.

"Because he founded the Alliance," Greymane said. "Seven nations of Man, two clans of dwarves, the gnomes, and he even got some elves to join before Quel'Thalas was burnt. Terenas was revered for founding the Alliance because it's not in our nature to form alliances unless it suits us."

"Considering the history of the Second War-"

"How many wars have there been prior to that?" Greymane said. "How many alliances? How many times are you faced with the prospect of annihilation as the alternative to working alongside people you despise?"

Anduin stopped walking. "Wise words. But this is the past."

"That is the past, yes. Now we're kept together by being in a world of constant war. Where people can stomach elves who can't stomach us, who can work alongside beasts like the worgen, and Light knows what else, because the alternative is even worse." He waved his clawed hand. "But I digress. My point is that prejudice does not disappear as quickly as you want. I bear no ill will to Calia Menethil. But she is not suited for the throne. Not when the memories of Arthas Menethil and Sylvanas Windrunner still run deep."

Anduin frowned. He didn't agree with Greymane. That wasn't even touching on the possibility of Calia's child still being alive somewhere. But then, Greymane was right – forging the Alliance had been hard. Prejudice did exist, even if he hoped not to the extent the man claimed. And even he, young as he was, could understand that there were people who wanted to return to Lordaeron. And that was not even touching on the Forsaken who still called this land home.

"For argument's sake, let us put Calia aside," Anduin said. "Who then should rule Lordaeron?"

"You," said Greymane bluntly.

Anduin blinked. "Me."

"Yes, you." He got to his feet. "King of Stormwind and regent lord of Lordaeron."

Anduin stared at him. "You can't be serious."

"As someone who debated who should rule Alterac after Aidan Perenolde departed this world, I'm every bit as serious as you could hope me to be." He reached Anduin, still towering over him, and now, smiling as only a worgen could. "There's precedent after all. Not to mention that you are not only the king of Stormwind, but high king of the Alliance. Every man, woman, and child under the banner of the lion ultimately owes their allegiance to you, whether they like it or not."

Anduin nodded.

"You don't look convinced."

Was it that obvious, Anduin wondered? Nevertheless, he spoke. "Claiming lordship of Lordaeron," he murmured. "If I did so, what kind of message does that send?"

"A message that Lordaeron belongs to the Alliance. A message that Stormwind does not forget the bonds of fellowship forged decades ago, that as surely as Lordaeron liberated your homeland from the Horde, you have returned the favour."

"And the tyranny of distance? Me, sitting on a throne in the south, giving orders to…" He nodded to the throne. "Who would actually sit there anyway?"

"Does it matter?" You would be the one with power."

"Power," Anduin whispered. He sighed, and looked around the room – dust, cobwebs, and the smell of death had long claimed this place. "Is that what the restoration of Lordaeron is to you Genn? Power?"

"No."

"Then what is it?" Anduin whispered.

"Justice. And the harsh realities of this world."

Anduin supposed he couldn't contest the point. And yet…

"I must remind you, of course, that we must decide soon. Our armies will march on Quel'Thalas soon, while the Lady Proudmoore seeks allies in Kul'Tiras."

And yet he couldn't take it.

"Your grace?"

Anduin took out Shalamayne and pointed it at the throne. He squinted down the hilt, as he might if using a crossbow.

"Your grace, what are you doing?"

Or a bow. His father had taken him hunting a few times. Before the Legion returned. Before the Broken Shore. Before he, Anduin I Wrynn, became king of Stormwind and high king of the Alliance.

"Anduin?"

"Tell me," Anduin murmured. "When Arthas murdered his father and took the throne, what was he thinking of?" He lowered his blade and looked at Greymane. "Power? Justice? Harsh realities?"

Greymane remained silent – it was apparent that he had scarce idea what Anduin was talking about.

"Well?" the Young Wolf asked.

"Arthas's soul and mind were taken by Frostmourne. What does it matter what he was thinking?"

"I think it matters a lot about what the king of Lordaeron was thinking."

"Arthas was no king," Greymane snapped.

"Was he not? The line of succession was clear – the firstborn son is first in line to the throne, and while I admit to being no scholar on the laws of this land, regicide in of itself does not negate that right." Anduin sheathed his sword. "I must admit, Genn, that sometimes I see myself in him. And I wonder if others do as well."

"Your grace, this is preposterous."

"Is it?" Anduin asked. "A mythical sword at my side. The powers of the Light within my hand. Young, and in the hale of life. Why, I even have the hair and eyes."

"And you fear what might happen to you if you too became corrupted?"

"Every day since the crown touched my head."

"Anduin, this is…" Greymane was clearly struggling for words. "Your grace, I will commend your devotion to the Light, but Arthas's fall was due to corruption."

"And hubris," Anduin said. "And desperation."

"True. But-"

"Garrosh Hellscream fell to rage. Fandral Staghelm fell to prejudice. Aedelas Blackmoore fell to greed. Jaina nearly fell to grief. Even if I have yet to reach twenty years, I believe the lessons of history are clear – anyone can fall to depravity, even without the whispers of gods or swords to sway them." He sheathed Shalamayne. "And that is why I will not take this throne Greymane. Not now. Reality tells me that it would not be wise when we have yet to end this war. And my heart tells me the same answer."

"But as king-"

"As king, I must listen to these things as much as my advisors." He placed a hand on Greymane's shoulder. "I trust your counsel, as I trust it from all men and women who have a place at my side. But my answer is still no, for I must listen to myself own consul as well." He nodded to the throne room's exit. "Now I bid that we depart. The city is not yet fully secure, and in the weeks ahead, we may have to look to sieges beyond this one."

Greymane, after a pause, after a look in his eyes that made it clear he disagreed, nevertheless bowed his head and said, "your grace."

Anduin nodded and began walking to the exit.

His back forever to the throne.


End file.
